


Slow Burn

by orphan_account



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He can’t help the fond smile that begins to subconsciously play at his lips, calloused fingers running an outline on photographed flesh. He can’t help that slight tingle at the base of his spine as chocolate irises take in the simplistic beauty of the scene. He can’t help the warmth pushing under his ribcage as pale grey irises stare back at him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyguinevere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyguinevere/gifts).



> for my sister. happy birthday. look! probably multiple chapters.   
>  slow burn-atreyu

The stars twinkle a slow fire against the pulsating crimson-blue cosmic backdrop, pinpricks of ever-bright light that bore into the discs of burning emerald that watched back with matching intensity. 

It’s nights like this that he dreads – when the cosmos make themselves irrevocably known, taunting in their vastness and reminding him ever so much of that sliver of golden thread that twines his life from one end of the galaxy to the other in a flow of past, present and future that ebbs and flows, shatters and shifts at whim. 

He shifts his body against the tight feeling that swells just behind his ribcage, pressure building to the point of cracking as he drags fingers through auburn locks. He’s gentle, carefully caressing as his eyes try desperately to focus on the activity; pale against dark as he shifts and separates until there is nothing but a smooth, untangled, continual flow of meticulously straightened hair.

The void creeps upon his being in the midnight hour. It slithers in his conscious and wraps inky tendrils around his heart, squeezing the life from within. It’s an ever pulsing feeling, darkness in physical manifestation that leaps and gnashes and claws at him, assaulting the senses as he works. But he continues on with precision, despite his aching joints and trembling extremities and the blindness that swells at the corners of his eyes.

Thin metal slides through deadened skin with ease, cutting like water, and his lips pull upwards gently, a secret smile softening his features. Carefully, he lifts her leg towards his body, cradling her foot in his right hand while the left elegantly traces an inward facing diagonal. Shadowed emerald irises watch reverently as the blood wells up and streams from within, slowly creating a puddle beneath her body as he repeats the process on the hand of the same denomination. The process continues as such, foot then hand, until each has a swollen red diagonal pointing in towards the body.

If the Bifrost felt like flying, then now he is soaring, soaring, _soaring_ , with shaky palms and shortness of breath and it’s wonderful down to the core, the lightness he feels as he traces an ‘x’ down her chest. It arcs around her breast, careful not to touch, instead accenting in a morbid sort of beauty and he laughs, tears streaming down his face as he trails a red-tinged palm across his sharp features like war paint.

\----

When he bathes her, it’s like worship. He’s careful not to break or blemish this beautiful creature he has created. He doesn’t use soap – doesn’t want to leave grimy residue on her lightly tanned skin – only chilled water and a thin crème colored washcloth. He waits until the water is tinged pink before he removes her.

She feels like porcelain beneath his fingertips as he dresses her. It’s a red garment that flows and sweeps and drapes across her thin frame, giving an ethereal appearance. A light hum resonates against his throat, a hymn his mother once gave to him, and he treasures it so. It’s okay if he shares it with her, for she is his treasure now, too.

\----

Tony finds the shattered mess upon the balcony, seemingly only fragments piled haphazardly into a shape reminiscent of the liar god. The titanium-alloy Avenger pulls his lips into a thin frown, irises like opalescent fire-agate glinting in the gray haze of the pre-dawn, scanning meticulously over the other’s pulled features.

The other appears as though he didn’t even have the energy to make it further than the balcony and collapsed on the spot. This doesn’t surprise Tony – little manages to do so anymore – though he worries for the godling.

The would-be king is thin in his arms, though still elegant in his own fractured right. The faded forest green tunic flows loosely against pearlescent collar bone, and Tony handles with care, this creature so easily broken. It is rare for him to find his prince in any kind of slumber, and to brush away this moment would leave a stain on whatever calloused organ his arc-reactor protects. He takes careful, measured steps all the way through the penthouse, right until he can lay him on the spread of sheets and comforters in their sometimes shared room. 

\----

When he dreams, it is of water. 

The water is beautiful, crystalline and perfect as it falls, cooling the atmosphere with each drop. Until it touches porcelain skin, where it quickly dulls and blackens, rolling hotly like an oil spill to the gathered mass at his feet, dark and foreboding as he stares down, no reflection to look back at him. 

From his feet, this tainted oil spreads further, diminishing the quality of the glass-like pool in which he stands, tendrils swift and unobtainable like smoke. 

The water level rises quickly, despite the maddeningly slow pace of the rain. The god tries to leave the reflecting pool in which he stands, tries to flee from the water before he is overtaken, but the dark, oily tendrils only serve to coax him in further, despite his attempts.

And he doesn’t want to be here, not really. He wants to run, knows he _needs_ to run, but the water is to his neck and what is he to do? He can feel his chest constrict in panic as he struggles. He thinks to scream, to plead for help, to ask for assistance, but it is to no avail as smoke tinted water forces its way inside, gripping his lungs.

\----

Tony is quick to place a firm grip on the godling’s shoulder, turning him over so he doesn’t choke on his own bile as he sleeps. It’s not pleasant, the retching, but he endures it, one hand rubbing slow but firm circles just beneath slender shoulder blades.

There are two wet coughs and a frustrated sob before Tony reaches down to hook his forearm against the thin waist of the raven god, pulling him up so that his back rests against Tony’s chest. He places his chin on the back of Loki’s head, digging it in a bit for reassurance as he feels nimble fingers wrap around his wrist, goose bumps rising on his skin at the temperature difference. 

They stay standing like that, melting into one another, for what seems like the stretch of eternity, until Loki’s breathing evens out and he starts to pull away.

He thinks, as he watches Loki’s retreating frame, that he should ask. He never does.

\---

As darkness envelops the northern hemisphere, Tony finds himself haphazardly thrown on this ugly red upholstered couch in the middle of his den. The evening news serves as white noise in the background, the glow of the television illuminating the room enough that the inventor doesn’t bother to turn the overhead lights on. Deep brown irises focus on the glossy photo prints that surround him. Tanned fingers gracefully trace captured memories, reverent touch leaving barely a smudge upon their existence.

Normally everything Tony does is digital. Computers and tablets and holographic interfaces. 

But not this.

For some reason, having these glossy, high-definition photographs makes everything more intimate. It makes everything more real; the clever incisions and intricate knife work.

He can’t help the fond smile that begins to subconsciously play at his lips, calloused fingers running an outline on photographed flesh. He can’t help that slight tingle at the base of his spine as chocolate irises take in the simplistic beauty of the scene. He can’t help the warmth pushing under his ribcage as pale grey irises stare back at him.

\---

“Anthony,” he whispers, voice cutting through the shadows like a knife.

Tony hums noncommittally, rolling towards the voice. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes, the cool breath of the other ghosting along his face. 

Loki reaches forward, digging fingers sharply into Tony’s biceps. 

“What color are my eyes?” he hisses, digging blunt nails in deeper.

Tony furrows his brows, exposing chocolate irises through half-closed lids. “Babe?”

“What color are my eyes?” he asks again, more like begging in the way his voice breaks.

Tony reaches forward, cupping either side of the godling’s face in his hands, lightly pressing thumbs over gently closed lids. “Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing lips against pale forehead.

He can feel the liar god’s eyes scrunch tight – can feel the warm droplets of water from within. “Anthony, _please_.”

“I saw it,” he says instead, enjoying the slight tickle of eyelashes beneath the pads of his thumb. “I saw her.”

Pale lips part to draw in a shaky breath, jaw tensing as though to speak.

“Shh.” Another kiss to the forehead. “She was lovely.” A kiss to the tip of his nose. “Thank you,” and a kiss to chapped lips.

Sparkling emerald irises find Tony’s in the dim light, and he smiles.


End file.
